


Soar

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 23:47:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Tatsuya’s still not through wishing things aren’t the way they are.





	Soar

**Author's Note:**

> for dw user devinephoenix
> 
> promt was wing au

Tatsuya should have seen this coming. He should have seen these coming, the long hard lines on the backs of Taiga’s shoulderblades, from which his wings will grow, from which, in a few years--a few months, really--they will be marked as absolutely different. Taiga’s always been a fast learner, but some humans are. Just because Tatsuya’s had to work twice as hard as Taiga just to stop Taiga from gaining on him so quickly wouldn’t mean that eventually their situations wouldn’t reverse, that Tatsuya would unlock some magical practice-duration talent, master some skills that Taiga can’t quite counter. Too bad the opposite will happen.

At a certain level, humans become useful role players in basketball; some of them can dunk and shoot high arcing threes that can’t be blocked without getting a whistle for fouls; they pass low enough that it’s not worth the risk for a winged to dive that low, smack their face on the floor or get too far out of position. Tatsuya had always imagined himself and Taiga as a tag team, on the same level, stupefying the winged (after they’d pried away all of Alex’s secrets). But this feels like a betrayal of his dreams--it’s no one’s fault that the two of them are different, just like it would be no one’s fault if Taiga was fully human and just better than Tatsuya. Knowing that, while still being mad, makes everything harder.

* * *

The last time Tatsuya had seen Taiga, a split second before he’d turned and fled, is stuck in his mind as if with masking tape onto a wall, held for years and impossible to peel away no matter how much the tape wants to flake away. He sees Taigas eyes, burning with the fire of confusion. Taiga’s wings, not yet powerful enough to get him more than an inch or so off the ground. Taiga’s face, worry and anger and sadness etched deep on it, emotions Tatsuya had caused when he could have held it off, until Taiga had gone off to Japan, and let him grow and leave when they’d had the excuse of an ocean between them. 

But he’d left the ends hanging, gaping, like an unfinished piece of knitting, just waiting to connect. Years later, returning will be difficult if not impossible, but not returning will be worse; at least that’s how Tatsuya justifies it to himself. And he won’t justify it to anyone else; his parents can think what they want, and so can Alex; so can his friends. At least they don’t try to stop him from going, as much as that, in its own way, hurts.

Tatsuya’s not prepared to see Taiga again, though, majestic wings like a hawk’s spreading from his back. He doesn’t need to use them to dunk; he shoots straight in the air before he needs to flap at all, and all of this is accompanied by a group of smaller human boys. The people that Tatsuya could be, if he weren’t so selfish, he thinks for a second, but that’s a little twisted even for him. He’s too selfish to hide in the background or let himself be overshadowed, regardless of how much sense it makes, regardless of whether he can shine on his own. How can he, next to Taiga? How could he ever shine, when they were kids and he was leading the way with methodical practice and Taiga was already leaping above him? How can he now, when he is on the ground and Taiga is soaring?

* * *

Taiga’s hand is still warm in Tatsuya’s, and Tatsuya is still caught between pulling away and squeezing tighter. It’s not his right; Taiga shouldn’t want this. But Tatsuya should be so far beyond trying to piece out what Taiga should or shouldn’t do; if it’s not for Taiga to want Tatsuya then it’s certainly not for Tatsuya to tell Taiga he can or can’t want him. None of these arbitrary rules that Tatsuya has slapped into place matter, anyway. 

They’re not brothers anymore; they can’t pretend. They’re still too old for this. Tatsuya doesn’t let go.

* * *

Taiga has never said that he wishes the two of them were the same, that he still didn’t have wings or that Tatsuya did, and for that Tatsuya’s grateful. That cuts too deep, too close to the bone, too far through his nerves, for him to even think of wishing it himself. It would make things simpler, maybe, but their footing would still not be quite level, in basketball, in anything. 

Tatsuya’s still not through wishing things aren’t the way they are. He can’t stop aiming higher; he won’t let himself. He can’t stop expecting more, grinding through disappointments trying to find some way to change, some niche whose door he can jam his foot into and break through. He’ll never have Taiga’s talent, or Taiga’s wings, but that’s beside the point; something as tangible as that wasn’t ever what he wanted. 

Taiga hadn’t gotten it before, but it’s easy for him to get when Tatsuya lets him in. It’s the same way Taiga can read him even when Tatsuya’s trying to shut out everything, that once Tatsuya’s trusted him he can’t pull his cards off the table. They’re already in Taiga’s mind; he’s already there.

* * *

“Here,” Taiga says, and takes Tatsuya’s hand.

He runs Tatsuya’s fingertips over the edges of his feathers. They’re not as soft as Tatsuya had thought they would be, sharp but not enough to cut. Taiga’s wings flutter in reflex to the touch; he drops his hand. It’s just Tatsuya, running his fingers up the edge of Taiga’s wing. Taiga closes his eyes.

That Taiga would trust him this much is enough for Tatsuya to want to cry, to feel as if his heart is being squeezed out of him through his throat. He holds his hand steady, brushing his thumb over the area where Taiga’s skin meets the bone of his wing, solid scar tissue (and Tatsuya remembers how much it had hurt, how Taiga had tried not to complain but how obvious his physical pain had been when the wings had grown in, how bad he’d felt for not feeling sympathetic enough). 

Tatsuya leans forward and kisses Taiga’s forehead. Taiga’s wing relaxes against his hand.


End file.
